Tremble Not, My Dear Child
by Gamemakers
Summary: Effie learns to be afraid.


"Isn't she a little old for that?" Mom asks.

Dad scoops Effie up onto his lap. "Hey, Effs, there's no reason to be scared." Strong fingers pry her hands away from over her eyes, and she sees her father smiling down at her. "They haven't even started yet, sweetheart. See?"

Cautiously, she peers over at the television set to find that for now, it's just Caesar and Augustus talking as images of the tributes scroll by on the bottom. "Who do you like to win, Effs? I'll give you five quill to put on your favorite if you watch like a big girl."

Mom's eyes darken. "Cassius, don't -"

"Five quill?" To a six-year-old, it might as well have been a fortune.

"Yeah, why not? C'mon now, let's see what we've got this year." He presses a button, and a menu pops up on the screen. The faces of twenty-four children greet her. "Which is your favorite? Who's gonna win this time?"

Effie's eyebrows knit together as she considers her options. Five quill is enough for three double scoops of ice cream from the truck that comes by on Fridays or two trips to the cinema. These may be Games, but that doesn't mean she can take them lightly. Dad nudges her, impatient, and finally, her mind set, Effie points towards the screen. "That one."

Dad cursors over to a big, muscular boy with curly black hair and a smile more threatening than any grin he could have mustered. "No, down one," Effie commands, and he obeys, selecting a fourteen-year-old from Nine, a girl with wheat-blonde hair and cheeks so sunken as to be almost skeletal.

"I don't know that she's such a good bet, sweetheart. You sure?"

She nods, serious.

"Then Miss Oliver it is!" he laughs.

"Cassius, do you really think that's a good idea?" her mother warns.

"Don't worry about it, Minnie. Those little blonde girls are rascals." He toys with Effie's pigtail, and she glares up at him. "She's probably got a few tricks up her sleeve, don't you think, Effs?"

* * *

It becomes a tradition. Every year, Dad gives her five quill to bet. Effie knows now that the Careers have the best chances, but she always puts her money on the kids from the outer districts. They're skinny, pitiful little creatures, and she never wins any of her money back, not even the fraction they give if a Ten, Eleven, or Twelve tribute makes it to the final four. That's all right. It's not like that money was really hers in the first place.

This year, she's having a hard time picking. Having forty-eight tributes means there are even more kids to choose from, and this year, even a few of the Career districts' tributes don't look like they'll last a day. Luckily, at fifteen, Effie has some money of her own, earned through odd jobs or saved from holiday presents and birthday cards. She can't settle on just one tribute, and she doesn't have to. Five quill on each of the Eleven and Twelve tributes puts quite a dent in her meager savings, but at least she feels like she's doing something. It won't help them in the Arena the same way that a sponsorship would, but she doesn't have the money for that anyway. Maybe they'll feel that someone out there is routing for them. It's silly, and things don't work that way, but it's still a nice thought.

And maybe it works, because two of them, a boy and a girl from Twelve, make it farther than anyone expects. She could figure out the probability of that, as she's always been good with numbers, but then she'll be working in reality. And in the real world, she's learning, there are no happy endings. Haymitch or Maysilee might make it out alive, but not both of them. The gamemakers don't care how sweet and domestic they look when they set up their campsites each night. Haymitch is a gruff kind of handsome, but there's a softness that comes over him when Maysilee smiles. The gamemakers won't care about that either.

"Do you think they're hooking up?" Diana asks when she catches Effie watching the Twelve feed during lunch. She frowns at her friend, who blushes all the way to the roots of her green-dyed hair. "They could be, right? I mean, they wouldn't show them doing… that. Not on the broadcasts we get to see, anyway."

"No, I guess they wouldn't." Effie turns back to her portable. Are they? On a certain level, it makes sense. But Haymitch and Maysilee aren't much older than her, and Effie and sex hardly seem to exist in the same universe. Part of that is probably a lack of interest on the part of the boys her age. Effie can't blame them. The only curves she possesses are the extra holiday pounds she still hasn't managed to lose from her midsection, and the braces that are supposed to fix her buckteeth serve only to highlight them. She ought to be grateful. Since Mom left and took her money with her, Dad doesn't have enough money for the immediate fix, doesn't really have the money for the braces at all, but he bought them all the same. She's awful, and she knows it, but the worst part is that Effie doesn't even try to change.

Maybe it's just as well that she looks like a skinny, ugly beaver. She wouldn't have any idea what to do if a boy approached her anyway.

"Effie!" Diana elbows her in the ribs. "Effie, turn the sound on!"

They're arguing. It would look like a calm, even discussion to a casual observer, but Effie's been obsessed these last couple weeks and knows better. The argument onscreen is growing more heated by the second. Excited, she fumbles with the controls for a moment before Diana snatches away her portable and does it herself.

"- only four left. What'll we do then?" Maysilee's voice crackles through the portable's crappy speakers, but Effie can still hear her resolve.

"Who says it's gonna be us at the end?" Haymitch challenges. "They're afraid to attack now because we're together. Split up, and suddenly we ain't so scary."

"But what happens once they knock each other off?"

Haymitch shrugs. "Then I suppose it's every man for himself."

Maysilee snorts at that. "Sexist."

"Hey, that's what you're wanting right now. It's not my fault you can't call it for what it is."

"It's just…" She shakes her head. "I can't do this anymore, and our partnership, allies-ship, whatever you want to call it, needs to be a mutual thing if it's going to work."

"You're the one who wants to -"

"I won't hurt you unless we're the last two. I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same."

Haymitch nods. "Of course."

A smile passes between them, small and sad, but very real, and Maysilee gives Haymitch's hand a quick squeeze before she shoulders her pack.

"So that's it," Diana says around a mouthful of tuna.

"I guess so."

The scream is so piercing and loud that her immediate reaction is to search the cafeteria to see who's been hurt. When she realizes they're staring back at her, Effie's cheeks burn, and she focuses back on the screen.

She wishes she hadn't. The gamemakers have truly outdone themselves with the flamingoes. Their feathers are a pink just a shade softer than cotton candy, and their long, slender legs shimmer in the sun as though dusted with diamonds. But in the Arena, beauty exists only to conceal horror. Maysilee is the third tribute to fall victim to their sharp talons, their strong beaks. Blood pools underneath her, but the birds do not stop. Four of the monsters peck and claw at her, and Effie is glad when one moves in front of the camera, blocking her view of Maysilee's distorted face.

Haymitch runs towards her fallen form, but it's too late. It has to be.

"Effie? Effie, cut it out." Diana pries away her portable. "Effie?"

"I was watching that!" she protests, but she is too numb for her words to carry any impact. When Diana takes her napkin to her cheeks, Effie realizes she's been crying.

"You need to get cleaned up before class."

"I need to see what happens."

"No. That's not going to help anything."

* * *

She's done everything she can: shepherded them to and from their many engagements, strategized with them over dinner, talked them up to anyone who would listen and many more that wouldn't. And now, all Effie can do is wait.

Her manicure's ruined. Thirteen hours might be a new record for that. Effie knew this would happen, but Aster had been so disappointed that they took off those long, elegant fake nails after her interview that Effie had gone digging through her bathroom drawers for that pink polish she just knew was in there somewhere. Cheap stuff, not nearly as nice as the sweet girl deserves, but she hadn't seen Aster look so, well, not _happy_ , not even close, but so unafraid since she had picked the fifteen-year-old's name from the reaping bowl. The camera pans over to Aster. Her manicure is in far better shape than Effie's. When the Games are over, she'll have to set up an appointment for the girl at one of the nice salons on Plaza Circle. Surely there will be time for that in between the doctor's appointments and interviews and parties.

 _If_ she gets out alive. Her breath leaves her in a rush. _If._

And _if_ Aster survives, Castor won't. Castor, the thirteen-year-old who cried so terribly after he skinned his knee the second day of training, more scared than hurt. The tiny child she would have dismissed as no more than ten had he not been standing there at the edge of the thirteen section. She's sending him to die. He will; there's no doubt of that. Both of them will, though she hopes against hope that some miracle will save them.

Her heart races as Claudius Templesmith counts down their last seconds of peace. _**Ten.**_ _Ten. ten._ The numbers echo through the Twelve apartment's cavernous sitting room where she sits, alone.

At five, the tears begin, and at two, the first drop falls from her face. When the cannon sounds, she buries her face in her hands. Effie does not watch, but she hears, and she knows.

* * *

 **A/N:** For April. Please excuse my tardiness. Title from Mozart's _The Magic Flute._


End file.
